


in the halls of human memory

by poalimal



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Complicated Relationships to U.S. Empire, Drabble, Food, Gen, M/M, Magic, Post-Mission Fic, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-23 09:35:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23009410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poalimal/pseuds/poalimal
Summary: Yes, I will eat, he found himself saying, I must have been hungry all this time.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	in the halls of human memory

He woke easily, without pain or scar, the woman at last beside him with a mouth of rose, saying, Come, feast at the foot of the Lady, and see what she will give. Her face dark and dazzling and suddenly familiar to him: yes, I will eat, he found himself saying, I must have been hungry all this time. 

And in a long lovely room he found himself suddenly, gauzy curtains kissing wind from the windows, tiles of gilded lapis gleaming above his head. He stared wide at all the pillows around him with no memory of sinking down into them. All around him were people he surely must've known, for they touched him with smiles and laughter, passing around cups of cool clear water and towers of food, bowl after bowl of steaming yellow rice, dates and pastry in drizzled gold honey, chicken roasted red and sizzling, lamb stewed over rice and dumplings filled with beef, his stomach grumbling, fresh shoor nakhood tickling his nose and sweet sunny wine stirring his tongue. It was two weeks before war, before death and pain, and all his old friends from Kabul still knew him, Omar with his pages and pages of terrible poetry, Karush with his hair sullenly re-dyed black, Roya with her guitar slides tied up like jewellery. And they did not die; they did not spit on the ground when they saw him. But if they called his name, he could not hear their voices; and if they touched his skin, he could not help but flinch from them; the heat of their fingers, strange.

Beside him a man bent down, smelling of something cold. And into his goblet the man poured the wine up so high he could not even lift it for fear of spilling.

'You can fight this, Sam,' the man said, close in his ear. A strange shudder fought its way out of him. 'I know you can. I know you will.'

Sam, thought Sam. My name is Sam!

And he looked up to see only that the man had vanished, and the people beside him were strangers once more, eating and drinking still, only now with limbs stiff and mechanical, the food spilling down their front, their eyes pinned and frozen, filled with fog.

And the Lady at the very end of the hall, now watching him with smiling teeth, her face cold and pale. 'Are you not hungry, child?'

If Sam did not look closely, the faces around him became ghosts once more. So he closed his eyes and he thought of what he would do, if he could erase his choices from the people in his past; he thought of what it must be like, to weave lie after lie to hide from yourself. To keep people bound to you. 

And he looked at her and he said: 'Aren't you lonely?'

The Lady's face became dark once more - he saw like a mirror the truth of what she tried to hide. She raised her arm up sharply, brought it down--

and he awoke, hurt all over from aches and pains. A man smelled of winter, and he sat in a chair at the side of Sam's hospital bed. 

'I told you not to touch it,' the man was saying. 'You never listen.' His voice was low with grief; his face seemed so very tired. He did not notice that Sam was awake yet.

Sam did not know the man at first - the layers of him came to Sam slowly: killer, stranger, lover and friend. Bucky - a soldier-now-civilian. A man like Sam himself. 

He lay there in silence while Bucky murmured to himself, practically falling asleep. He closed his eyes; his memories coalesced. He thought of the view of Kabul from beneath its fig trees - he thought of the view from up in his plane. He thought about the war; about fighting - how it never ended within you, or between you, once it took root - he thought about Roya, about her guitar and her music - the song she had played on the roof after Karush died. The flag she had burned before him, the very last time they spoke.

'I'm sorry,' said Sam. He felt more than saw Bucky sit straight up. He kept his eyes closed and did not forget. Somewhere down the hall he smelled something pale and reheated - his stomach craved real food now. 'I'm so damn sorry.'

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short moody piece. Some inspiration from Spirited Away, perhaps.


End file.
